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They give her a choice, in the end. Hands in chains or hands chained to the bed.
Alicent waits and wonders. Argella Durrandon, the last Storm Queen, found herself chained and naked and begging for mercy at Orys Baratheon’s feet. At least Rhaenyra has allowed her clothes—though the red silk shift provided by her ladies does little to preserve Alicent’s dignity. Would Argella’s answer have been different if she’d been allowed a scrap of fabric between her body and Orys’? Would she have fought on as Alicent had—as Alicent would?
No, she would not. They said that Orys Baratheon was so struck by beauty and pity that he wedded and bedded her into fighting for him rather than against.
There would be no wedding to absolve her in the history that Rhaenyra would write. She is not Argella, the tragic maiden; Rhaenyra is not Orys, the conquering hero.
Her wrists chafe against each other, and Alicent knows that she chose wrong. On the bed, at least, she would have the excuse to give up the fight. To rest her heavy eyes and allow somebody else to haunt and hunt and hurt.
But—this is Rhaenyra’s old bed. She had been placed in the chambers that Rhaenyra had once occupied as heir to the throne. Chambers that she knew well, as Alicent had once slept in a cot in the antechamber as Rhaenyra’s lady. Though she had lived in these chambers, slept in them and ate in them, she did not know them well. She had never considered them home. Only the girl who resided in them.
She is in front of the mirror, the same mirror in front of which she had dressed Rhaenyra for her coronation. The servants had left her there. In the mirror’s reflection, she looks as she imagined Argella to have looked that fateful day a century earlier. Her hair is wild down her back, tangled and indomitable. Her eyes look huge. The filigreed gold chains wrap thricefold around her slender wrists, dominating her frame. And the shift does not cover or protect so much as humiliate. It clings to Alicent’s body like a second skin and tucks between her legs whenever she moves as if to make her near-nudity more pronounced.
She wonders if it belongs to Rhaenyra.
“Your Grace. I hope you’ve found your new lodgings comfortable.”
As if summoned, Rhaenyra’s voice heralds her arrival. Alicent does not bother to answer or turn. Rather, she watches the figure in the doorway approach through the mirror. She’s almost a stranger, clad in a black gown that hugs her frame far tighter than appropriate. The Rhaenyra she remembers had been fond of gold.
And, of course, red.
“It is impossible to be comfortable in chains.” Alicent fights to keep her voice level and measured, but it is a losing battle. In chains and nearly-naked, there can be no pretending.
“What is this, Rhaenyra? Why not throw me in the dungeons?” With the rest of her party. With the rest of her family.
Rhaenyra only looks, her purple eyes shifting up and down over the whole of Alicent’s body through the mirror.
“What, will you parade me in front of your men like the conquering king? From what I recall, you never much liked that story.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes flash and meet her own.
When they had read of Orys Baratheon’s conquest of the Stormlands and the Storm Queen, Rhaenyra’s eyes had flashed then too. She’d declared that no one should ever take her alive; that if she were Argella, she would’ve fought to the last breath, even against her own men. When Alicent had replied that that seemed impossible, and that Argella’s story was rather romantic, Rhaenyra had rolled her eyes. You’re the silly one , she’d said. What’s romantic about coming face to face with your enemy and have them see every inch of your skin? There’s a reason why knights wear armour.
“I am not a Baratheon,” Rhaenyra answers finally, “Nor a man. I have other plans for you.”
Alicent waits for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. She only stares.
Enough of that. Enough of the vagueness, of the Targaryen superiority. Alicent whirls around only to find Rhaenyra closer than the mirror had suggested, close enough that Alicent should’ve felt her skirts brush against her exposed skin.
“Do you intend to torture me with obscure threats?”
At that, Rhaenyra smiles a frightening thing, full of teeth.
“No, your Grace. That’s not how I intend to torture you at all.”
With those words, her hands grab onto the chains at Alicent’s wrists. Off-balance and off-guard, Alicent doesn’t think to fight, and she’s shoved rather roughly onto the bed. Before she can make sense of what has happened, Rhaenyra shoves her arms upwards, and when Alicent attempts to yank them back down, she finds that she can’t.
She’s tied to the bed. Or rather, her chains are fitted around a hook in the bedframe, and she cannot pull herself free no matter how hard that she tries.
“Terrible, isn’t it? Being trapped.” Rhaenyra’s voice is honey-sweet and it sends a terrible surge of fire through her.
“Yes,” she answers through gritted teeth. “I know it well.”
If her words have any effect on Rhaenyra, she cannot tell. The princess is newly opaque. Her expression is tightly schooled even as she bends to join Alicent on the bed. Rather than assume the position of captor by her side, though, Rhaenyra kicks one leg over Alicent’s to straddle her as Alicent had seen her straddle Syrax. Rhaenyra’s thick thighs bracket her, and Alicent can feel the muscle even through her dress.
“Do you know what they say about you?”
“I don’t care,” Alicent snarls.
“You lie so prettily.” She can feel the sharpness of Rhaenyra’s nails as she begins to caress her face. She’s carved them into points—no, into talons that rival those of Syrax. Alicent doesn’t need to look down to know that they’re painted a burnt bronze.
“They say,” Rhaenyra leans close, the heat from her body emanating over Alicent. She wants to move away; she wants to burrow into it. “That the queen only needs a good fucking to dislodge the stick from her ass. I admit, their gossip has merit.”
Before she can help herself, Alicent snorts. The sound is derisive and so unladylike that she tries to pull her hand forward to cover her mouth. Only she can’t, and the rattling of the chains comes too late to muffle the sound.
Rhaenyra’s answering laugh is as close to delight as Alicent’s heard from her since her father’s last supper.
“That’s disgusting,” she spits.
“Hush now, your Grace. I bet you’re just as curious to test that theory as they are.”
Rhaenyra’s bare hand, she realizes, is on Alicent’s thigh. There’s heat emanating from there too, sinking through her skin and setting her aflame.
“Princess,” Alicent snipes. Rhaenyra tuts, interrupting her, and so Alicent tries again. “Your Grace. Rhaenyra . Get off of me.”
“You’re no rider, Alicent. Your orders are words on the wind to a dragon.” Rhaenyra’s eyes move, flickering down. “Your body betrays you.”
Alicent follows her gaze and sees that, underneath the red silk, her nipples have tented the fabric. It’s impossibly strange. She can’t quite remember seeing them like that, pronounced enough to pebble through clothing. If she touches them, will they be hard? Her face burns as her wrists make the chains jingle again.
“Do you want to touch them?”
“No.” Her breasts are utilitarian as the rest of her, she reminds herself. Even if she were to touch, she would feel nothing.
“Do you want me to touch them?” Rhaenyra’s voice is feather-light.
“No.” But this answer comes out slower; breathier.
Rhaenyra chuckles again. “I think you might.”
She lowers her head, but rather than touch, she waits. Alicent watches Rhaenyra watch the rise and fall of her chest. She can feel her breath on her skin, the silk shift offering no protection, and it feels as though she’s being licked by flame. Her breasts, previously immune to any response but pain, are suddenly overcome by pulses of pleasure.
Then, Rhaenyra moves.
Her face is in Alicent’s breasts, pressed up against one, and before she can ask what she’s doing, Rhaenyra’s wet mouth opens. The sensation is divine. Her tongue works at Alicent through the fabric. The silk, once made wet, provides friction that only intensifies the heat pooling in her belly. Then, Rhaenyra’s mouth moves to the other, repeating the same motions until Alicent feels her teeth nip at her.
“Rhaenyra!”
Her cry is ignored as Rhaenyra returns to the first breast and bites at that one too, right where the pleasure pulses. Alicent can hear her chains as she thrashes; it sounds almost musical. But she needs to stop her, she can’t take much more of this, she doesn’t know what’s going on—
“I think you could come just from this, couldn’t you, Alicent?” As Rhaenyra speaks, her voice thick and hoarse, she pinches at Alicent’s nipple. Again, Alicent tugs at her chains.
“Come?”
The word hangs in between them. For the first time since Rhaenyra has entered, she seems surprised. If Alicent were a little less dazed, if she could only collect her thoughts, then she could use this to her advantage. Instead, she hisses as Rhaenyra’s fingers pass over her breast once more.
“Come. Finish. Reach completion?”
“What a vile—”
“Save the disgust.” Rhaenyra’s lips are curved; she’s smiling. She’s torturing Alicent and humiliating her and she’s smiling. As Alicent watches the sharp red line of her mouth, Rhaenyra’s hand slides under the shift and grasps at her bare skin.
Cool air wafts over Alicent’s chest and she gasps. She doesn’t need to look down to know that Rhaenyra has exposed her.
“Or don’t,” Rhaenyra finishes. “Your tits are very pretty when you flush.”
Though she’s complimenting her, Alicent can hear the undercurrent of laughter in Rhaenyra’s voice. She looks down in spite of herself and gods, she is flushed from the chest up.
“They almost match your little slip.” Rhaenyra has one of her breasts in her hand and this time, Alicent watches her pinch at the pink tip of it. The sight alone sends warmth rushing to her, pooling in between her legs so heavily that Alicent shifts to mitigate the weight of it. Only, shifting does little to help. It’s only when she presses her thighs together that there’s the slightest sense of relief.
“Just like that. Very good.”
Rhaenyra resumes her work with her mouth, licking and biting one breast while her hand pinches and soothes the other, and Alicent can’t stop watching her. She had never dreamed of this. Not really. She didn’t know the language for it, had not understood what exactly husbands and wives did in their beds beyond Rhaenyra’s coarse jokes. And then, with her husband—
Viserys had never done this.
The pressure of Rhaenyra’s mouth is endlessly wet and warm, and her weight atop of Alicent is impossibly soft, and she can’t stop moving. Her hands aren’t fighting to be freed any longer. They’re moving for the sake of it, Alicent’s nails digging deep into the meat of her palms, while her body bucks upward to be as near to Rhaenyra as possible. And her legs—she can’t stop squeezing them. She’s got this pressure at their apex, new and frightening, and she just wants it to go; no, she wants it to stay forever. She wants to capture this heat inside her belly and tend to it forever, this lick of fire that Rhaenyra’s given her.
“Hold onto it,” Rhaenyra murmurs against her wet skin, and Alicent doesn’t know how much that she’s spoken aloud. All that she knows is that the flame is burning hotter and hotter, and that perhaps Rhaenyra truly is a dragon. A dragon hungry for her, a dragon pinning her down and feasting on her flesh.
The heat inside of Alicent peaks.
She is lost to the violence of what overtakes her body. She’s not some green girl; she’s a woman grown, a wife and a mother besides. She has felt a man shake as he spent himself inside of her. And yet—she is not prepared for this.
The shaking overtakes her entirely. Pleasure so sweet that it’s almost pain soars through her, from her insides out, and there’s nowhere else to put it. She can’t move; she can hardly breathe. Though she tries to twist onto her side, to keep that sacred flame inside of her, Rhaenyra’s position does not allow it. Alicent must lay there and shake and take at Rhaenyra’s whim. Even the sound she makes, high and unlike anything she’s ever heard from her own throat, belongs to Rhaenyra.
“Good,” she hears Rhaenyra murmur as she squirms. “Take it.”
She does not want to be doing this. Alicent is sure of that much. To want is shameful, disgusting, unwomanly. To have that want explode into a completion is even worse.
“Rhaenyra,” she pants out. She’s unable to stop saying her name now that she’s started. A year of calling her the pretender, the false queen, of pretending that her enemy’s someone other than Rhaenyra. Her name is sweet on Alicent’s tongue. It always has been. “You’ve made your point.”
She’s reduced Alicent Hightower, the Queen Dowager of the Seven Kingdoms, Champion of the Faith, to this. A trembling mess of limbs and chains, sticky between the thighs and sweaty between her breasts.
“Oh, Alicent.” Rhaenyra smiles but it’s too sharp. “I haven’t even started.”
As Alicent has been fighting for her breath back, Rhaenyra’s hand has slid down from her chest to her belly. Alicent tries to clamp her legs together to prevent from becoming even more exposed, but when she does, there’s another flood of pleasure between them and that’s more humiliating, somehow.
“Don’t make me tear your shift.” Has she gone mad, or have Rhaenyra’s eyes glazed over? Alicent can feel the sharp point of a nail through the silk, directly against her belly. “Like that,” she murmurs after Alicent relaxes her legs.
It’s better, she decides, to let Rhaenyra have her fun than to participate in it. If she were to squeeze her legs together like that again, in this position, she might feel that flood of pleasure once more—and then what? She would reach completion for a second time in Rhaenyra’s old bed? Nothing could be worse.
There’s a sudden pressure at her cunt. Rhaenyra’s fingers are pressing against it, searching lightly—and then they find the place that makes Alicent keen.
She sounds like a wild horse, not a woman. Not a queen.
Rhaenyra chuckles again. “Like that, did you?”
Blindly, Alicent searches for an argument. Anything to stop herself from debasing herself like this again. Anything to keep from finding pleasure where she certainly should not.
“Your husband—Daemon—is he not?” Alicent breaks off her question as Rhaenyra applies pressure to that same secret place.
“Daemon knows I’m here. He has his Mysaria.” Within a moment, Rhaenyra has lowered her face to Alicent’s. They aren’t touching, but she’s close enough that Alicent can see her mouth’s red. Red with paint, red as her family’s colours. “And now, I have you.”
Before Alicent can protest, one of them leans up or down, and their mouths are brushing. Not brushing—they’re kissing. An act reserved for man and wife, one that she’d only performed with an addled husband at his behest.
Kissing, too, is entirely different with Rhaenyra.
Different, but somehow the same as Alicent had always pictured it. She explores Alicent’s mouth as excitedly as Alicent imagines she explores the skies. All eagerness and speed and teeth . She nibbles on Alicent’s lips, entirely improper again, and her tongue coaxes Alicent’s mouth open, swallowing any other words she might say. It’s hardly fair. Rhaenyra kisses and she plunders and she explores while Alicent is here in chains, left only to take.
Her fingers play with Alicent’s cunt again, delving through her folds but never entering. She doesn’t need to, Alicent realizes. She can hear how sticky she is as Rhaenyra keeps returning to the point of her pleasure; she can hear the lewd noises Rhaenyra’s fingers make as she rubs at her. There’s pain there too, just as there had been with Rhaenyra’s mouth on her breast, thanks to the queen’s sharpened talons. But the pain doesn’t prohibit; it enhances.
She tries to speak Rhaenyra’s name, but Rhaenyra won’t free her mouth. Every time she pulls away to take a breath, she delves back in just as deep, giving Alicent not a moment to think—or to stop what’s coming.
This peak is different than the first. Alicent thinks that she knows what to expect, but the trembling lasts much longer and the noise she makes is much louder. She thrashes up, her body pressed flush to Rhaenyra’s, rubbing wantonly against her. The heat simmers up her body and Alicent wants to tear at something, anything, to release the flood of energy. All she can do is kiss Rhaenyra and, in the midst of her peak, bite back.
Rhaenyra pulls back and Alicent opens her eyes to find that Rhaenyra’s lips have, somehow, become even redder. No, not somehow—she’s bleeding on her lower lip, where Alicent bit her. Like she had bled from her arm when Alicent had the dagger, all those years ago.
“I’m,” sorry is what Alicent wants to say, but she’s interrupted by Rhaenyra’s mouth once more. Ridiculous to be sorry when they are where they are. Ridiculous to be sorry when she’s the one in chains. Ridiculous to be sorry when their children have slain each other.
She can taste Rhaenyra’s blood in her mouth.
The pleasure-pain of Rhaenyra’s fingers turns into strictly pain as she continues rubbing at Alicent and she cries out.
“It’s too much, I know.” Rhaenyra pulls away to say. She raises a hand to press against Alicent’s cheek and sweeps back an errant curl. The hand is sticky, Alicent realizes too late. Sticky with her.
Rhaenyra, though, has clearly already realized it. She brings her fingers to Alicent’s mouth and, though Alicent turns her face away, she follows.
“Open,” she instructs.
Alicent shakes her head. How disgusting .
“Open or I’ll make you.” Rhaenyra’s other hand squeezes at Alicent’s chin and the pressure borders on pain.
“Rhae—” But before she can get her name out, Rhaenyra has stuffed her fingers into Alicent’s mouth. Two fingers that taste somewhat salty; that taste of her. Alicent expects to gag, to be sick. Instead, her tongue moves between Rhaenyra’s fingers, tenderly working at them.
“Good. Very good.”
They stay in the position until Rhaenyra deems her fingers clean or perhaps bores herself of this type of torture. Her fingers wet with Alicent’s spit, she traces them over her cheek again.
“Why are we here?” Alicent finds herself asking, her brain too addled by what Rhaenyra has put her through to adopt any pretense. “Why don’t you just kill me?”
At that, Rhaenyra’s brows furrow. It’s the first time she’s come close to frowning since she entered the chamber.
“Why don’t I, indeed.”
They stare at each other.
“Remove me from these chains,” Alicent orders.
Rhaenyra’s brow clears. “You used to ask so sweetly, Alicent. The throne has done you grievous harm.”
She’s condescending to her, on purpose, Alicent realizes, just as Rhaenyra flips the bottom of her shift up to reveal her cunt. She’s powerless to cover herself, but she tries all the same, the chains rattling lyrically against each other.
“I believe your cunt will flush beautifully too. Shall I have a look?”
There’s a lump in her throat which makes it impossible to speak as Rhaenyra lifts herself off of Alicent to travel down her body. Alicent does not want to look, but her gaze is fixed to Rhaenyra, and so she takes in the image of her own debauchery.
She’s flushed all over. Her breasts poke out from the top of the shift and they’re smeared in the red of Rhaenyra’s lip paint. The shift is bunched around her stomach, the fabric red as blood. And of her most sacred, private place—even through her red curls, she can see that she’s pinker down there than she has ever seen.
It’s awful.
Rhaenyra stops with her ass practically at Alicent’s feet. In this position, one might mistake her for kneeling. It would be a mistake, though, because Rhaenyra Targaryen has never and will never kneel a day in her life.
“So pink.” Rhaenyra seems to be speaking to Alicent’s cunt for that’s where her eyes rest. Even as her chains clang together, the noise doesn’t deter from her mission.
“What are you doing?” Alicent shrieks.
Rhaenyra’s fingers she could take. She understood that. But this—this, certainly, defies the gods. No one’s mouth should ever find itself there .
Rhaenyra bends and licks a broad strip up her cunt.
If her chains had been loud before, they’re deafening now. Alicent pulls at them but not, this time, to get away. She wants to touch. She wants to press Rhaenyra’s head down for more. She wants to weave her fingers through the silver silk of her hair.
She wants Rhaenyra.
Rhaenyra’s mouth moves up to that perfect place, leaving a trail of wetness that Alicent can feel.
“You’re making a mess,” she murmurs weakly, and Rhaenyra’s answering laugh vibrates through her cunt.
Rhaenyra lifts her mouth just barely to say, “No, Queen Alicent. That’s your dripping cunt.”
No queen should ever be spoken to in such a manner. That’s what Alicent should tell her. Rhaenyra knows better. Instead, she moans as Rhaenyra’s tongue finds the site of her pleasure.
Her next peak is quick to come. A third is no more shameful than a second, Alicent reasons with herself, and if this is Rhaenyra’s torture, then she can take it. Her legs close around Rhaenyra’s head, stopped only from squeezing her by Rhaenyra’s nails digging into her ass. Her arms burn from their position above the bed and the pain of that too intermingles sweetly with the rapture flooding her.
“Enough,” she groans as Rhaenyra’s tongue continues to work at her cunt. “Rhaenyra, enough.”
She does not stop even though Alicent begs. The rough palate of her tongue hurts against her sensitive skin, but soon enough, that pain circles back to pleasure.
She reaches completion—comes, as Rhaenyra says—twice more like this. Alicent thinks so, at least, though the floods of pleasure become difficult to differentiate. After her fifth peak, she lays exhaustedly back, her head sinking deep into a pillow. Her hands no longer fight at her chains and she finds herself utterly incapable of forming words. Her shivering is now consistent and she’s crying, her body acting on its frustration.
Rhaenyra rises from her position and she’s shining. Her face is shining, and it takes Alicent several moments to realize that she’s glistening with the wetness from Alicent’s cunt.
Too exhausted to protest, Alicent allows the queen to kiss her, and finds herself licking Rhaenyra once more. This time, she cleans her mouth rather than her fingers. Rhaenyra makes an almost-animal sound, the same sort of sound that she used to make when Alicent braided her hair. She liked it when Alicent’s nails scraped gently at her scalp; she seems to like it now, too, as Alicent’s tongue cleans her.
“Did you feel me kiss your legs?” Rhaenyra asks.
Alicent nods her assent.
“I’ve marked you there too. You’re all red, all the way from your knees to your pretty little cunt.” As she speaks, Rhaenyra tugs her shift down. “Are you cold, Alicent? You’re shivering.” She lifts Alicent’s hips to tuck the fabric back under her bottom.
“Yes,” Alicent whispers.
Cold and sweaty and sticky, so so sticky between her legs. She’s never felt more—and less—like a person.
“One more, I think.” Rhaenyra’s lips brush against her wet cheek as she speaks, and Alicent chokes out a sob. “Just one more, and you can rest.”
She doesn’t have the language to explain how she feels. There are words for women like her. Expressions for women who defy the Mother and the Seven and go limp with pleasure. But even those words can’t explain the breadth of what Alicent feels, the sensations that have overwhelmed her body and muffled her voice.
“One more for me,” Rhaenyra says, and Alicent nods in response.
She doesn’t lift Alicent’s shift back up. She’s kind, her Rhaenyra. So kind, Alicent tells herself deliriously as she watches Rhaenyra’s head disappear under the shift. She adopts her position over Alicent’s cunt but this time, she does not bend her face into it.
Alicent feels Rhaenyra press two fingers into her entrance at the same time.
“Too much!” She cries out, but Rhaenyra doesn’t stop. She must have blunted some of her nails, because where Alicent expects to find pain there is none. After a few brief thrusts of her fingers, her mouth settles back over the apex of Alicent’s pleasure and sucks. Her fingers fuck into Alicent, rubbing against another place that has Alicent bowing her back.
“Are you full?” Rhaenyra removes her mouth to say. “Who’s filling you?”
“You are.”
“And who am I?” Rhaenyra’s fingers massage inside of her and Alicent sobs long and low.
“Rhaenyra.”
“And?”
Alicent doesn’t need to think to know this answer.
“The queen.”
Rhaenyra resumes licking and sucking while her fingers continue moving, and something inside of Alicent breaks. This peak is not so much of a peak as an explosion—no, a burst of dragonfire. All that Alicent sees past her tears is red, red, red, and her fists batter uselessly at the bedframe as she comes.
When she returns to her body, newly aware of where she is, Rhaenyra has removed her head from her skirt again. This time, she isn’t shining. She’s soaking . Her mouth is dripping wet and, as Alicent looks down, she can see a dark sheen to Rhaenyra’s sleeve.
She hardly dares to peek down at herself, but she doesn’t need to see to know that it’s all gone terribly wrong. She isn’t just sticky now—she’s drenched. There’s a wet spot underneath her that the silk sticks in, making it difficult for Alicent to move out from it. It’s impossible, actually, because her shift is soaked too, on the top and bottom.
“Wha—”
Alicent’s voice catches. She doesn’t understand, she’s never seen such a thing, has she just—
“It’s not that.” Rhaenyra answers the question that she’s too frightened to ask. “Nothing like that. It’s proof of how much you’ve enjoyed my torture.”
Though her words are kind, shame eats at Alicent. Her cheeks are wet with new tears and she still cannot speak past the lump in her throat. Proof of her enjoyment. Proof of her lack of dignity.
Rhaenyra’s hand closes against her chin as it had earlier. “Proof of your hypocrisy, my queen.”
She steps off of the bed easily, as easily as Alicent has seen her step off of Syrax. While Alicent is a stained, soaking mess, Rhaenyra is regal perfection save for the lip paint that mars her face. She looks down at Alicent with hard eyes, no more smiling or laughter.
“You will join me and my council at dinner tonight, Alicent.”
If she were in any state to argue, she would. She would tell Rhaenyra that she won’t eat at the table of usurpers. That she would rather starve. Instead, Alicent stares dumbly at her.
“You will have a few moments to rest. Your chains will be removed from the bed. And then you will come down to dinner as you are now.”
As she is now.
“Surely you don’t mean…”
“In my shift, soaked with your own pleasure and my paint.” Rhaenyra’s lips almost curve into a smile. Almost. “Even if it dries, the silk will be stained.”
The silk above Alicent’s cunt.
“You needn’t worry. You’ll be able to feed yourself in your chains. Our supper is stew, so there will be no knives.” Rhaenyra’s voice drops. “I remember how much you like those.”
Rhaenyra—the queen, the usurper—turns back to the door in a swirl of black skirts and bright hair. She has never looked more regal. She has never looked more like a Targaryen.
“And if you behave yourself, I’ll come back and you can lick my cunt for dessert.”